What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger
by Qwerty2
Summary: It's about Snape and his drinking problem. Little angsty but goes into humor pretty fast.


What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. By Qwerty.  
  
(A/N: Nor mine, as usual.)  
  
I drink to not be miserable for one bloody moment. One moment to forget who I am, what that had meant for me and what it will mean to me on the future.  
  
For one choice, well it wasn't even a choice really, made in the past. One is punished a lifetime.  
  
I'm now and forever more in between worlds, forever in between it all.  
  
Never again can I be on the dark sight because I have betrayed them but the light side can and will never fully accept that I have a past.  
  
So I drink.  
  
Drink and if you might believe me party. Not when anyone who knows me as Snape could see me.  
  
I fear that you will be able to predict this but I naturally enjoy the most decadent of parties the most. Those sort where it is said that the devil is worshipped.  
  
Nice guy, by the way. He has a real talent for partying. We has a party in some little castle in . I think . wait . I'll get it . Italy! . I guess. We partied for 3 days and four days straight. There were dungeons, secret rooms and attics in almost every corner. So that there was something for everybody.  
  
I drank for about 70 hours straight that time round. Don't remember very much about those days so it must have a very good one. Whats-her-name or one of the other ones told me I had great fun those days.  
  
I awoke with a head like the Vesuvius before Pompey and a bed, a room and a balcony full of sleeping people. This wasn't all that shocking as it was a very overcrowded party, plus you couldn't lock any doors and I can be very charming, apparently especially when I drink. And drinking is something I am very good at. If challenged I good probably drink most people under the table.  
  
I also have the advantage I drink for a reason. I drink because I need the support it offers me so as to go on living. I can't go on living the life I have pretended to live for so long. And I can't change it by myself and people won't help. But then again who could expect me to live like that? So I made myself another life with a new identity if only for the night it is enough.  
  
People always think I have no social life. They think I don't ever leave Hogwarts. If only they knew. If only they knew, I actually have an social calendar at least trice as full as theirs.  
  
But that only shows how bloody cunning I am, how bloody good at hiding. Not that it is a good sign.  
  
Maybe from time to time I want to be caught. Want to be caught and then helped, helped into a new life without the alcohol and drug abuse, a life without the hangovers, the disorientation, even without the wild sex.  
  
But that luckily never lasts. Because it is so bloody ridiculous. Where would my life as Severus Snape go? Would it just disappear? Would all my problems in that life, my past as that man, that monster be gone?  
  
No, of course not. I am beyond rescue, beyond salvation!  
  
So why the hell should I not have fun? Why shouldn't I destroy what is left? Always go out with a bang, and do as much damage to myself as I go down.  
  
I have hid for so long from so many different people. It has become my nature to do so. It is now my nature to never show who I truly am, never be vulnerable, never show a weakness, never be nice, never be considering or whatever the fuck else you would fucking like me to be.  
  
I can't show who I am. In the past, because then I would vulnerable and people would be able to hurt me and now, now I can't because I have done so much, that one isn't supposed to do, that no-one alive could handle it if I were to open up to them.  
  
There are now too many things I can't admit to, can't say and can't forgive. Forgiving is a weakness because it lessens your hate. And hate, hate is the one thing that will make you stronger.  
  
Somebody, anybody I dare say everybody can take your happiness away from you but they CAN NOT ever take your hate from you. Even when you have lost everything, you shall still have your hate. And the beauty of it all is that your hate can only grow stronger unlike your love which can only fade.  
  
Even more, love is like a sickness. It weakens you, occupying your mind, never leaving you be. You can't think of anything but the object of your affection.  
  
Though hate also can preoccupy your mind and thoughts, hate unlike love gives you a goal. A goal is set to show you're hate in as many ways as possible, with me anyway. It will not drive you into passiveness as love does, but drives you on into maybe aggressiveness, yes, but also into productiveness. You will keep trying until you succeed in your goal, whatever sick thing that may be.  
  
That is why I believe in hate over love. Hate above all. Ohh and alcohol. So I in fact believe in hate and alcohol. What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger!  
  
But hangovers can be very convincing to stop drinking . if only for a morning, max. 2.  
  
Most of nights consist of first checking, grading, throwing down the stairs and randomly crossing out sections (what's the difference?) of the pupils stupid, horrifying attempts at coherent English. Then, after these deeply shocking shows of ignorance, a comforting drink by the fire place . and another one (will always find reasons to enjoy a few more) . and another until it is about elevenish when I start getting dressed. I take about an hour to get dressed appropriately. I have an image to keep. Around or over my outfit I usually wear my infamous billowing robes so no one has any reason to suspect what it is I am doing sneaking around in the corridors at midnight.  
  
Not that anybody would dare to question ME. I AM SNAPE. The most hated potions master, professor if I might take that honour. The most hated person (living and dead) in Hogwarts. The cheating, favour-giving, menacing, Slytherin asshole.  
  
I do love myself. And I absolutely adore my attitude problem.  
  
After a delicious tour of a not-so deserted Hogwarts and a few detentions later. I go to one of my favourite clubs. Where everyone knows as the extravagant, flamboyant Dorian. (NOT after Dorian Gray from the book by the muggle writer Oscar Wilde!) (Well, Ok you got me, I'm a sucker for that story, who doesn't dream of eternal youth.).  
  
I am not the LIFE of the party. I simply AM the party. (Told you 'bout my beloved attitude problem.)  
  
All heads turn to see me (and my outfit) as I enter. And then only after I have sat down (if my outfit of the particular evening allows such a thing) at the best table or couch or whatever, shall the party continue.  
  
With everyone trying to catch my eye and/or get my approval of their look, all is well as long as I am not overshadowed.  
  
Which I naturally never am.  
  
I am the most flamboyant and crazed personality there. They all want me or want to be me. I love it, in the most hating way possible else it would turn in to a weakness, which it is not. (Really).  
  
I have a bit of a reputation as they say. One day I was (temporally) out of original ideas. So I rented a "Motorbike", a Harley Davidson, put on leather trousers and this gorgeous leather dog collar thing, black make up and the coolest black t-shirt saying: "I'm only wearing black until they invent something darker." Love that. So true. And in this (summer!) kit I entered my favourite club in Moscow in the bloody middle of the damn cold Russian winter. I brought the house (and the door) down with that one.  
  
I lost my leather slacks to a couple of very nasty nails in the door, leaving me with nothing but my string with moving (and singing) Santa's all over it. That might have had something to do with my rep since then.  
  
Now I think about it, it was in fact Christmas Eve and I was very frustrated about the stupid feast which one is made to attend.  
  
If not for Albus' need to prove that people (read stupid, irritating students) overeat, his love for absolutely ridiculous speech-making and his all over love for un-matching costumes that became unfashionable be for even he was born.  
  
If not for Albus I could have made a fashionably late entry in Moscow, but now I was so late I was no longer fashionable. And with my reputation and ego I can't stand to be anything but fashionable.  
  
Even in school, you will have to admit I'm very fashionable. Black is the new blue you know. I knew that be for it became all the rage, so in fact on top of it all, I am also a trendsetter. So I had to make it appear as if I had in fact planned for this to happen because then it is fashionable again.  
  
So I planned earlier mentioned party crash.  
  
It worked like a charm (better even, trust me have tried, can't show face in San Tropez again).  
  
I am now absolute god in Moscow underground scene. Sex god too by the way.  
  
Because I do look very darn hot with and even more without my clothes. I work on that.  
  
It is very important, because I can't go out as Dorian and be anything less then perfect. Hair too. I have this special "gel" (silly muggle name system) to make it look just right for school. But outside of school it actually looks absolutely perfect. Very "hells-angel" like look. Lovely muggle expression which I do not yet fully understand, but love just the same.  
  
So to look good, I work-out. Every day. About 2 to 3 hours. Well when my hangover is over anyway, so usually after classes.  
  
After having told you about my night, or whatever I remember of them, I shall now tell you the marvellous, happy story of my mornings. My mornings are the combination of pure bliss and the truest of hells.  
  
I awake in peace with the world and myself, in absolute lovely ignorance. Bad thing however is that as soon as I move these feelings leave me and are replaced by something quit different. Quite different, indeed.  
  
The feelings that come over me are more along the line of, well of course, stomach flipping nausea, mind-blowing, head splitting migraines, ohh and let's of course not forget the all-over disorientation. And certainly ones inability to stand on ones own feet is also an interesting morning ritual.  
  
At least it is a nice ritual if I've seen my bed that night. Well let's assume I did for the sake of the story I wish to tell now. So let's proceed from getting back my senses (most defiantly not good).  
  
After waking in my blissful ignorance and being shocked back in to the real world of pain, I try and walk to the bathroom. On a good day I manage to stumble. On a bad one I have to crawl. And on some days I have to levitate myself in.  
  
Stupid Albus, why aren't we allowed to apparate?  
  
At least then I could have some dignity to the bathroom to throw-up, because that in itself is embarrassing enough without having to crawl or float in. After getting that over and done with I go in search of the sink and a toothbrush. Then, having ridden myself of all reminders of the ex-contents of my stomach, I take a shower. Water has always had a way of relaxing me. A bath is even better, as I can then combine it with another passion namely reading, but by this time I usually in a rush so a shower will have to do. After that I drink my usual morning-after mix of painkillers, stomach tablets, espresso and a strengthening potion. And of course just a spot of vodka.  
  
The best way to cure a hangover: continue to D-R-I-N-K!  
  
Sometimes I don't even bother showing up for breakfast. Most often in the name of science. Though I can't do that to that to often or Albus will get curious to what it is exactly that is making miss so many breakfasts. But let us again presume I do go to hell's meal without my friend, the devil and without all the lovely tortures around us.  
  
Ever had breakfast with Lucifer at his place? Well it is absolute heaven, let me tell you. This great table with nothing but booze and painkiller (or other pills if you catch my drift) and around you, people being tortured everywhere, lovely, and if they were to scream to hard to your judgement or for your hangover, then they will be tortured even more horribly with a silencing spell to let only the softest version of the pains go thru. That is service. You can do it your self too (if that is your thing), but it is of course more stylish if you don't as you are to busy working thru the less tiring sins, mortal or not depends on your mood. Torture and those kind of things are left for latter as that is too much work on a "sober" stomach.  
  
As I said, really nice guy, Lucifer. Though the fallen bastard won't tell me when I will die, he has already offered me a place at his side when the time comes. How nice it is to have such a good friend!  
  
But back to the absolutely NOT amusing breakfast at Hogwarts. And the irritating, ever-present (I hear you thinking: Duh, SCHOOL! But why are they even down in every corner of the dungeons!) and NOISY students. I eat as little as possible without arousing suspicion from Dumbledore, nosy old fool (what a nose by the by). All I need (of what one is able to get without being sent straight to the Rita Skeeter Rehab centre) is coffee, coffee and coffee. Nothing but coffee. And a drink, but due to said reason that will have to wait until the dungeons.  
  
And also can't because of Albus' silly suspicion that I'm only steps away of becoming a full blown alcoholic.  
  
The thought!  
  
How bloody stupid!  
  
I would never be an alcoholic, alcoholics go to meetings!  
  
So, as soon as it becomes even vaguely civilised to leave, I am gone. Back to the dungeons to go about preparing my lessons and grade (alright, throw down the dungeon stairs) the papers I didn't finish the night before. Strange thing, I never seem to get thru it at night, might be the vodka's fault. Yess, that's it. It could never be my fault; it can therefore only be the vodka's fault. Defiantly!  
  
After that it is time to have some bloody fun with those damn useless students. Scowl, scream (though not to loud, auw), give detention, be a bastard, give favours (only to a very select few Slythertins), pick on people like Longbottom and give undoable amounts of homework. This all has always had a way of making my day. The worse my hangover the more fun I end up having . Though I'm always very careful about screaming, because if I were to do that too loudly I'd get such a sharp headache I would surly faint. And that would be absolutely intolerable.  
  
But, after that, the cycle begins again.  
  
People think I'm a vampire. Well they're pretty close on one aspect of that. I live for the night. If not for the night, my life would not be worth to living.  
  
Let me tell you about a meeting I had with Albus not so long ago (dates escape me). The dearest man (the vodka gets the best of me there, again) was ever so discreetly trying to get insight into my drinking habits. I told him, having first had some fun feigning ignorance for a while and having a great deal of trouble trying to not have a laughing fit (blame the vodka again), that I am only a social drinker and as it is impossible, partly thanks to him, for me to have a social life. I therefore don't have a drinking problem.  
  
The look on his face was absolutely priceless. Shame (ohh goody), irritation (hèhè), sorrow (ohh, bloody hell), pitty (hé, don't need that!) and some form of fatherly love (where the hell's that for?) were all show on his face in the mear seconds before he regained his composure, showing me only his most diplomatic smile.  
  
Bollocks, I felt ever so slightly guilty to have hurt. (Again, I blame the whisky, or was it vodka . don't you dare laugh at my TEMPORARY loss of memory, or favourite beverage if you will!)  
  
He then told me I was free to have a social life as long as it was within Hogwarts walls and not betraying any part of my spy-states. I, bastard that I am, asked him what kind of a social life that would be. To which he only smiled (and twinkled, damn eyes) and left me to be. Grrr. How I hate it when he's being professor know-it-all!  
  
So with these thoughts I shall leave it for now.  
  
Ahh, 2 o'clock, time for a drink. Sainte. 


End file.
